Stateless

by Alan Gold

  ‘I buried him in the way of our Egyptian deities so that in the afterlife he would be ready to be presented to Osiris. He was mummified and as he was being wrapped by the priests and embalmed, I placed his favourite amulet of the four sons of Horus inside the linen.

  ‘But while I was watching him being wrapped, the Roman Procurator, Gaius Lucius Septimus, happened to come along to watch the process. He was fascinated by Kheti’s amulet, and ordered the priests to remove it so that he could keep it. I remonstrated with him, forbade him, and eventually begged him. But he’s an arrogant man, and he treated me as though I was some insect biting his arm. So he now has the amulet in his home on the hill, and without it, my beautiful son will be unhappy in the afterlife, and Osiris will not find pleasure with him. I have been to the Procurator’s home, but he will not let me in. I am forbidden to tread on his land, and his men have orders to strike me down if I come near Gaius Lucius while he is being carried on his litter through town.’

  She looked at Abram and Maria, and her face suddenly became that of a grieving mother rather than a slave trader.

  ‘And you want me to enter the Procurator’s home and take back your son’s amulet?’ said Abram.

  Didia nodded.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I go to the Procurator, tell him that you’ve stolen my son, and have you arrested?’

  ‘Because, Abram, if you do that, you will never see your son again. I will die, but my death will be instantaneous. For the rest of your life, you’ll never know whether Jonathan is dead and buried in some stinking rubbish pit, or alive and toiling away his life as a slave to some Greek or Roman overlord.’

  ‘You would do that to a father? You! A mother who’s just lost her son? What evil thoughts must pass through your mind,’ Maria said.

  Didia turned and glared at her. ‘Don’t think that you know what passes through my mind, you sorceress. You and Abram are Jews. I, too, was born a Jewess. My mother was a Jewess as was her mother before her.’

  Abram was shocked. ‘You? But I don’t understand. Your son was buried as an Egyptian.’

  ‘My family came to Egypt hundreds of years ago. When King Cyrus was overlord of Persia, during the rule of King Manasseh of Judah, my ancestors were paid to come to the island of Elephantine in the upper Nile to help the Pharaoh in his battles with the Nubians. They stayed there until Alexander came to Egypt three hundred years later, and founded this city. And here they’ve been ever since, even remaining after the massacre of the Jews by the emperor Trajan. That was when my grandmother changed her religion to become a worshipper of Egyptian gods. But in our hearts, we’ve always been Jews. And my family can trace its ancestry back to the Temple of King Solomon . . .’

  Abram laughed. ‘That was a thousand years ago. How can you?’

  Didia wasn’t amused at being disbelieved. ‘My family passes its heritage from father to son, mother to daughter. From the time we’re children, as one generation succeeds the next, our mothers and fathers have taught us about the great men and women of our family. When we have learned to read and write, our parents consider that we’re ready to learn the history of our family. We’re told that in the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem, our greatest ancestor, Gamaliel, son of Terah, was the man who constructed the House of the god Adon, stone by stone. So do not doubt me, Maria the Jewess, or you, Abram the Israelite, when I say that I, too, am a Jew.’

  ‘Yet,’ Abram said, softly, as though to himself, ‘you trade in children. You take young boys and girls away from their parents and sell them into slavery.’

  ‘Abraham of the Bible owned slaves as did many of the ancients. I am just continuing a tradition.’

  ‘But Jews no longer own slaves. Yes, those of us who are wealthy have servants, but the servant can leave his master’s employment and is free to wander. Yet the children you trade . . . they have no life other than a living death of servitude.’

  Didia sighed. ‘It’s the parents who sell me their unwanted children. Egyptian, Nubian, those from Sudan and Punt and from far south where the natives are as black as mahogany. These unwanted children, who eat and take up living space, would be murdered or drowned; yet I give the parents money, take them off their hands, and for the rest of their lives the children grow into adults with a place to sleep, a good meal in their bellies, and a master and mistress to tend to them if they fall sick. If not for me and my slavery, these boys and girls would now be dead.’

  She shrugged her shoulders, knowing that he could not refute her argument. The three fell into silence, looking at one another, until Abram said, ‘So for you to return my son, I have to go to the home of the Procurator and steal back the amulet that once belonged to Kheti and which you want to return to his shroud.’

  Didia nodded.

  ‘And then you will return my son, Jonathan, to me.’

  Again, she nodded.

  ‘And if I steal it back for you, and give it to you, how do I know that you’ll keep your word?’

  Didia looked at him and shrugged. ‘You don’t know that, Abram. But what choice do you have?’

  For the rest of the night, until they were too exhausted to continue, they discussed ways of Abram getting into the Procurator’s home and treating him for the disease for which he was well known – the falling sickness. During his first meeting of the city elders in the week he arrived as the new Roman Procurator and Senatorial Overlord of Egypt, he had suddenly stood from his throne, clutched his head, and called to his servant to help him leave the chamber. But even before his servant could get the rod to put into his mouth, Gaius Lucius Septimus had fallen onto the floor and looked as though he was having a fit. His legs, arms and body had shook, and foam had flowed out of his mouth.

  Those who understood these things said that he had the same falling sickness as the greatest of all philosophers, Socrates, and as Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar. For days after his malady, Gaius Lucius hadn’t been seen outside of his palace, and it was unwise for anybody to mention his illness.

  ‘I have an idea,’ said Abram. ‘Didia, you spread the word to all you know that a great doctor has arrived from Jerusalem who has cured men of the falling sickness. But to ensure that he knows I am a friend of Rome, you must say that I am from the city of Aelia Capitolina in the country of Syria Palaestina. Only then will he feel trust in me. Perhaps the gossip will come to the ears of his servants, and administrators; and perhaps they will whisper my name into his ear. But even when I’m inside his palace, how will I find the amulet?’

  The two women looked at each other. Neither had the answer.

  Even Abram, doubtful of whether the scheme would work, was surprised by the swiftness of the response. It had been two days since his meeting with Didia the slave trader. Though he was still anxious about the welfare of Jonathan, his fears had receded because he now knew that his son was alive and being cared for. Those fears he’d suffered when Jonathan hadn’t returned to their lodgings had been replaced by his very real concerns about being able to cure the incurable disease of the falling sickness, and of finding some small amulet in a short time in the vastness of the Procurator’s palace.

  So when, in the middle of the night, somebody knocked aggressively on his door, and shouted out in a language he barely understood, ‘Open, in the name of the Procurator,’ he was quite unprepared for what was about to happen.

  Abram jumped out of bed and opened the door to find a huge, burly centurion standing there, dressed in the regalia of the Roman army, his breast badge showing that he was a member of the Legion XVII Alexandrianus.

  Without any introduction, the centurion commanded, ‘You’re the doctor from Syria Palaestina. You will come with me immediately.’

  Not wanting to indicate that he was aware such a command might be made, Abram spluttered, ‘What . . . why . . . I’m a doctor . . . who demands I come . . . who are you?’

  The centurion eyed him coldly. ‘Don’t ask me any questions. Just get dressed, bring any instruments you use to cure people, an
d come with me. Now!’

  Within a minute Abram was marching in the middle of a phalanx of men towards the upper part of the city. They were the only people on the road, as the curfew forbade anybody to be on the streets late at night after the city bells had been rung. When they reached the palatial residence of the Procurator, Abram was overwhelmed by its size, grandeur and opulence. His whole life had been spent in villages and large towns, having been forbidden, like all Jews, from entering Jerusalem except on the one day, the ninth day of the month of Ab, when Jews were allowed to enter and grieve in sorrow for their history. His only view of Jerusalem had been from deep in its bowels, when as a boy he and his beloved Ruth had burrowed to the top of the tunnel to return the seal given to him long ago by Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai and his son.

  But he’d never allowed himself to enter Jerusalem, and so the first truly major city he’d entered had been Alexandria, and in the few days he’d been there, he’d explored little more than the port area. As he was marched through the streets, he was amazed by the city’s size and complexity, no more so than when they ascended a hill, and the Procurator’s palace came into view. Abram looked at the enormity of the home where Gaius Lucius Septimus lived in a manner beyond the Israelite’s belief.

  They entered through a fortified and guarded stone-and-iron gate. The walls of the vast villa were painted in reds and yellows, blues and greens, and were adorned by parrots and lions and tigers and elephants. Columns held up balustrades and walkways built seemingly in the air, where servants sauntered into and out of rooms. Fountains played the music of waterfalls and when he looked inside the enormous basins, he saw fish swimming in them.

  And the floor. This was no rush matting or earth floor; this floor was a mosaic pattern of the faces of men and women, of courtesans and governors. He felt uncomfortable walking across such graven images, but he was forced to follow the patrol that had escorted him from his lodgings.

  A servant led him upstairs to a series of corridors and rooms where he entered a sumptuously furnished antechamber. A man was seated at a desk, writing on a vellum scroll. He looked up as Abram was escorted into the room. The middle-aged man, grey, gaunt, suspicious, eyed him up and down, and it was obvious that Abram’s attire didn’t suit his new surroundings.

  ‘Have you searched him?’ the man asked.

  The centurion shook his head and apologised. ‘He’s a doctor. I didn’t think it necessary.’

  ‘Fool! He’s about to enter the private chambers of the Procurator. Search him for any weapons in the folds of his . . . his . . . whatever that thing is that he’s wearing.’

  The centurion crudely felt every part of Abram’s body for knives, swords or any other weapon he might have been concealing. It upset and angered Abram, who winced when the centurion felt his private parts.

  ‘Might I remind you, whoever you are, that I’ve been dragged from my bed for reasons which haven’t been explained to me. Now, why am I here, and what do you want with me?’

  ‘You’re here,’ said the man, who still hadn’t told him who he was, ‘because his Excellency, Gaius Lucius Septimus, has commanded you to be here. That’s all you need to know. In a moment, I’ll take you into the Procurator’s quarters. You’ll address him as “your Excellency”. You’ll answer his questions simply and explicitly. You’ll ask no questions of him, unless given permission by him. And you’ll initiate no conversation or engage in any unnecessary talk. Is that understood?’

  Abram nodded. The seated man stood, and almost apologetically knocked on an interconnecting door. A muffled response was heard and the door was opened. If Abram had been surprised by the opulence of the public parts of the palace, when he entered Gaius Lucius Septimus’s personal apartments, he was now breathless. Deep reds, blues and yellows were the dominant colours. The huge room was full of a type of furniture Abram had never before seen: armchairs made of beautifully carved wood and leather; divans of deep crimson plush, intricate wooden chests of the blackest wood, inlaid with ivory and alabaster, tables large and small covered in sophisticated marquetry where the craftsman had used wood and gold leaf to create sculptures of birds and bears, foxes and lions. And in the middle of the room was a huge bed with some sort of translucent curtaining around it, joined to the ceiling by a canopy.

  And seated at his desk, reading from scrolls, was Gaius Lucius Septimus, the Procurator and Governor of all Egypt, one of the most important men in the world.

  The man who’d brought him into the private quarters saluted, his arm rigidly outstretched, his palm facing downwards, and said, ‘Excellency, the doctor, Abram the Jew from Syria Palaestina.’

  He retreated and closed the door behind him, leaving Abram standing there, while Gaius Lucius continued to read his scrolls, ignoring the doctor. Abram continued to stand, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. Eventually, the Procurator glanced up and spoke to him.

  ‘Do you know why you’ve been commanded to come here?’

  ‘No, Excellency.’

  ‘A century ago, one of the greatest of all of the Romans suffered from the same malady as that which causes me to be ill from time to time. But because he was the leader of all the Roman Empire, he tried to keep it secret, to hide it from the world, for fear that it would show him to be weak. I have no such fear. I’ve been informed by the doctors in Rome that my malady is not uncommon, and tends to strike powerful men of great intelligence. It is called the falling sickness. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘Yes, Excellency.’

  ‘It is an inconvenience for me. It strikes, often without warning, and it lays me in my bed, sometimes for days. I feel weak and listless afterwards. So I want it to be cured. But the Roman doctors have not been able to prevent it happening, despite the foul medicines they’ve prescribed. And word has reached my ear that you have had success in Syria Palaestina in curing this disease. Is that true?’

  ‘No, Excellency.’

  Gaius Lucius looked at him sharply. ‘No?’

  ‘No, and yes. I have no proof that the falling disease can be cured. But I have prevented its recurrence for years in some people, such that since I treated them it has not yet made its return.

  ‘I might have cured some people, but others have merely had their disease made less frequent. Those who had the falling sickness every week found after my treatment that the incidents occurred only after months, sometimes six or more months. But I was unable to cure them and prevent their malady recurring altogether. However, while many of my patients who have been treated by me and have not had any fits or episodes since the treatment claim they’re cured, I can make no such claim. Their fits, Excellency, may recur in them at some stage.’

  He stopped talking. It was a risk to admit such a doubt, but the moment he saw him, Abram realised that such a man would prefer truth to the sycophancy to which he would normally be subjected.

  The Procurator nodded. ‘If you can delay the onset of these fits for weeks, or better, months, then I will be satisfied.’

  ‘And my fee?’

  The Procurator looked at Abram in astonishment. ‘I do not discuss such things. You’ll talk about that to my amanuensis.’

  But the doctor shook his head. ‘No, Excellency. I don’t like your man, and I don’t think he likes me. I’d rather we discussed my fee between us. I have to live, and I’m not prepared to – ’

  ‘You dare say these things to me?’ Gaius Lucius said in astonishment. Nobody had spoken to him in this way for years.

  ‘You want me to cure you?’

  Another risk, but like the first, this one paid off. The Procurator smiled. ‘You’ll be well paid for your skills. Now, what medicines do I have to take to cure me?’

  ‘None,’ said the doctor. And he remained silent, looking at the Procurator.

  ‘None?’

  ‘None. You have to understand that what ails you is an agency of your body being out of alignment. The disease from which you suffer is called by the Greeks “epilepsia”, from their word epi, whic
h in Latin means “from” and lepsis, which in your language, Excellency, means “seizure”. The great Hippocrates examined it carefully. Before him, it was called the sacred disease because it was thought to have been sent to us by the gods, and so people sacrificed animals and sought expiation.

  ‘But Hippocrates said that its cause was that the humours of the body were out of orientation, and the remedy I dispense is to put the humours back into order.’

  ‘Humours?’ asked the Procurator.

  Abram nodded. ‘Hippocrates taught that our bodies have four humours: blood, phlegm, black bile and yellow bile. Each has its own complexion. Blood is hot and dry; phlegm is cold and wet; black bile is cold and dry; and yellow bile is hot and dry. In a person who isn’t sick, each of these humours keeps the others under control, but not one is the master of all. In your language, none would be considered primus inter pares. Each is the equal of the others and all act in harmony. But if illness causes one or more to take prominence, then the body loses its orientation, and the disease takes hold.

  ‘In your case, Excellency, the black bile, which is usually cold, becomes heated when its normal dry condition becomes clogged with bodily fluids. Perhaps you’ve eaten something unusual or drunk too much wine; or something that you’ve eaten or drunk was afflicted by rot. Whatever it was, it has adversely affected your black bile, which heats and causes the foams to come out of your mouth when you fall to the floor.’

  The Procurator was staring at him in amazement. ‘Where did you acquire this knowledge?’ he asked. ‘Why didn’t my Roman doctors tell me such things? How do you know so much, Jew?’

  ‘I am a student of the great Hippocrates. And also of the physician to your own Emperor Commodus, one Aelius Claudius Galenus, who is known for his writings on anatomy as Galen of Pergamon. It is these men, and great doctors like them, from whom I have acquired my knowledge . . . and, of course, by practice and observation of medicines on my own patients.’